Photograph
by ckmono
Summary: One shot focusing on Roxas, during the events of the Prologue of Kingdom Hearts II. Inspired by the events of Day One, and Nickelback's 'Photograph'.


_Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts I, CoM, and II do not belong to me; they belong to SquareEnix and all companies associated with this wonderful project._

**Author's Notes:**

I am assuming that before Namine was in Castle Oblivion, under Marluxia's control, she spent a little time with the rest of the Organization, includingRoxasat the Headquaters in the World that Never Was.

Inspired by Nickelback's 'Photograph'.

**Warning:** **Spoilers for the Prologue of Kingdom Hearts II, and Roxas' identity.**

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**_Photograph _**

Roxas had a copy of that picture—all four of them did. He took that copy with him when he left the Headquarter, trudging warily, tensely through the heavy air under the pressing clouds. His hands were tingling constantly, the strangely familiar energy of the Keyblade just beyond his fingertips, ready to be drawn forth the instant any Dusks appeared. He barely met the Superior, _really_ met him like he had met Axel and Demyx and Namine—whether he could really smell Roxas' own darkness surging away and severing any bonds with the Organization was beyond the boy, and he didn't want to stay and find out.

As he waded quietly across a dip in the cement road filled with water, he stared hard at the ripples, wondering if he should _really_ cut all the bonds, let the picture drown in the dark waters that supposedly don't exist, like everything else in this paradox of a world.

His feet, eager to take him to that half-remembered boy, carried him beyond the dip before his hands could make a decision. Roxas shrugged, and kept walking.

"So, you've decided?"

For a guaranteed escape, no matter who did what or who said what, Roxas took several more paces before he stopped to answer, folding the photograph away in his black trench coat.

---

In the pounding haze of his mind, Roxas felt the tall, firm man beside him let go, propping him against a wall. He had half a mind to escape, but thinking made his whole being _hurt_.

There were some murmurs, and he struggled to distinguish the end of one murmur from the beginning of another.

"…belongings. He cannot be left with anything that reminds him of this existence." A voice ordered with cold, sophisticated efficiency.

"Even his clothing?" Another voice asked, doubtful.

"No, his clothing can be easily translated into data and erased. It is like building a toy soldier; you may give him any uniform and any belongings, where in the case of belongings he must be empty of any in the first place. After all, he is your soldier, not his own, and you give him the weapons and possessions central to who he is." The first voice explained clinically.

There was a silence, in which Roxas felt the pockets of his trench coat being searched, his wrists and neck for any accessories. He jerked slightly when his half-closed eyes caught sight of the photo leaving the black garment, and threw an arm weakly around the intruding hand.

"Still here?" The first voice asked with curious amusement. "I would have thought Riku's light was strong enough to decapitate a child's darkness."

Roxas felt the forearm in his grip flex and push him a little roughly into the wall and pin him there. "No," The second man said. "Riku was defeated. I had to finish the job for him."

Roxas stared at the aquamarine eyes under the hood, when the fuzzy image of these same eyes, framed by bangs of blue-grey white, flitted across his leaden mind. The man seemed to see the same thing, and he looked away, standing up with the photo as maniacal red and yellow forced away the cold colours, as pale skin decayed into a dark tan.

"And where is he now, good stranger?" The first man asked, suspicion hidden behind and amiable voice.

"Who knows?" The second man replied cryptically, cocking his head and shrugging nonchalantly.

"Why do you choose to help me?"

"Why do you choose to help Sora?"

The first man was silent for a moment, before a cold chuckle bubbled from his throat. "Very well," He murmured. "We are at least on the same footing." He paused, before looking hard at the second man, "Riku is well then?"

"As well as someone like him can be." The man answered. Roxas managed to lift his neck slightly, still tingling with the powerful energy of the Twilight, still feeling like it cramped in a million little knots.

There was a tense moment of silence as the first man regarded the second man critically.

"Is that all?" The second man suddenly spoke, waving a hand towards Roxas. "Will it work?"

"Of course it will work; he is part of Sora, after all. The part Namine needs if she is to speed up piecing together Sora's memories. He holds half of Sora's power—and in the end, he'll have to give it back," The man answered briskly. Out of the corner of his sore eyes, Roxas caught a dark-crimson cape whirling away. "Until then, he'll need a new personality to throw off his pursuers."

"How pitiful." Roxas glared up at the second man, seething that he dared to assume that he understood; his eyeswere aquamarine again, and they stared back at Roxas. Roxas was not sure what he saw there, empty indifference, confusion, sadness, regret, apologies, _maybe I do understand a little _all hardened into a determined expression, sinking away again into hollowed cheekbones and a scowl much like his own.

Roxas let his head drop tiredly again against his chest, and called forth, with amazingly bright and _painful_ clarity, the photograph. His entire body tensed, sending small spasms of muscle pain along his arms and legs.

"That is the fate of a Nobody." The first man declared quietly.

Roxas did not look up as he heard a few buttons being pushed. White light burst around him, and he felt himself dragged—_in what direction?_—by its rays.

All of a sudden the ground—_was there one in the first place?_—gave away, and he was falling, plummeting, through the sky and the water, through a foggy, ebony abyss as the bright exit rose further and further away from him. The darkness wound around him almost affectionately, hard like chains, prying the photograph away from Roxas' mind.

Roxas jerked from the restrained feel in his chest like he received an electric shock, his stone-like body twisting and fighting, clawing and kicking itself into an overload, struggling, flailing, trying to swim with no fins, to fly with no wings. Something was squeezing him, squeezing the light above from his vision, squeezing the photograph from his mind even as he tore it back in vicious, jagged, broken pieces—

---

Roxas liked that photograph—he, Hayner, Pence, and Olette, they each had one copy. It was the first day time they found their way through the forest to the haunted mansion beyond, _by themselves_, without nose-in-the-air Seifer to arrogantly point out that they had gotten lost several times, like he didn't hesitate to on many other occasions to point out their wrongs.

Hayner was grinning smugly, like Seifer _was_ the camera; a small twig clung to his spiked hair, somewhat destroying the effect. Beside him, Roxas sported a small, secretive, gentle smile. In front of Roxas knelt Pence, a gleeful and triumphant grin on his face, accompanied by a pudgy thumbs-up. Kneeling with Pence on the ground, Olette looked pleased with what they had done, though her smile belied exasperated relief.

Roxas didn't get to spend much time with them this summer; he was so busy, he supposed, that he didn't notice time pass, so much so until there were only six days left. That day was fun, despite the fact that he could not remember much of it

_Probably passed that day without even knowing it._

It was a convenient thing, Roxas mused, that this picture was here. It reminded him of his holidays, when something—he _assumed_ it was the looming thought of school—pressed against the back of his mind, squirming to break free.

"Wonder why whoever the thief was didn't just steal my picture, or Pence's, or Olette's." Hayner commented thoughtfully, a humorous smirk on his face.

"Maybe," Pence's eyes bugged out with a conspiracy, "There's something about Roxas' things. Maybe they're trying to tell you something, Roxas."

"What if it's—some sort of—weird person?" Olette asked worriedly. Hayner flapped his hand dismissively.

"Don't worry, Roxas'll be fine. I trained him well, and nobody can handle a hard hit with a Struggle weapon." He boasted.

"I think I'm actually a little more worried about the photo," Roxas laughed quietly, "That was a nice picture."

"True," Hayer grinned. "Good times, huh?"

"Yeah," Roxas grinned back, his voice brightening, "Good times."

---

"_Hey!_"

The cloaked man, Roxas noted with a small grin of smug satisfaction, jerked slightly, and the loose pin that held the picture to the wall fell as he pulled the picture away.

"Put that back." Roxas demanded. The man stared at him stoically from under his hood, strands of pale, malnourished silver hair and one gleaming yellow-red eye. Roxas frowned, wary.

The man stalked towards Roxas' bed, ignoring him.

"Hey!" Roxas called out angrily as the man opened the window above the bed, and climbed up to the windowsill using the bed.

"Give that back!" Roxas grabbed the black trench coat, glaring alternatively between the soiled sheets and the back of the man's head.

Suddenly the man turned and shoved Roxas in the chest, hard. Roxas caught a gleam of cold blue-green before landing hard on his lower back.

"You—" Roxas reached for the Struggle bat at the foot of his bed. "Where is it?" Suddenly a different feeling altogether overtook his peeved annoyance. "Did you take _it_ to _him_?" A breeze ruffled the man's trench coat, and Roxas' vision flashed dark crimson.

The man stared at him strangely, half in shock and half in marvel. His head jerked, snapped towards the window.

With a cry, Roxas lunged forward, twirling his Struggle bat in a flourish he'd never learned and Hayner _certainly_ couldn't have taught him.

The man dodged barely, and allowed the momentum to carry him through the window.

Roxas' feet were soiled with the boot prints as he landed on the mattress, pushing his head out the window, looking down, blinked, and _he was gone._

Roxas sat back, and felt like his innards had dropped out of his body. He rubbed his stomach, and it growled. He looked at the Struggle bat in his hands, and deduced that practicing probably tired him after a full day of work.

Shrugging, he dropped the Struggle bat on his bed, and bounced off pristine sheets to dinner.

---

"Namine! What are you doing?"

Roxas looked up in surprise, and a tiny and ignored spot in the corner of his mind jumped with recognition.

"But, at this rate, Roxas won't know—" Namine winced slightly as the dark man pulled her roughly up by her upper arm.

"It's best that he doesn't." He replied curtly.

"Hey! You're that pickpocket!" Roxas interrupted, pointing accusingly at the man. The figure spared him a nonchalant glance, and raised his arm, palm out.

A gust of air pushed him, as if displaced, and Roxas jumped forward, turning sharply to face the black, purple, and navy blue vertical whirlpool. He stared at it with morbid curiosity and a drop of disgust, the way it seemed to flow out of thin air, into the center, and sink into nothingness.

He had a second to register the soft steps behind him, before someone shoved him forward, making him stumble and fall face first into the murky—_waters_? _What—_

_The man turned to Namine, who looked back, just as lost as he is._

"_Why is it best that he doesn't know?" Namine asked, shoulders slumped. _

"_It's better because DiZ said so." The man said quietly._

"…_Oh." Namine sighed, but after a moment, sat up a little straighter. "Liar."_

"_Who isn't?" The man shrugged. "Besides, do you know any better way?"_

"_Tell Roxas. Stop hurting him." Namine said, sitting up straight._

"_And then what?" The man continued, flipping his hood off his head, and glanced self-deprecatingly at the silver hair so like his but **not his, never supposed to be his again, can't believe it had to come to this.** "It's like being told you have a terminal disease."_

"_Worse." Namine amended softly. The man nodded acquiescingly._

"_Maybe he'll come to terms with it someday, but by then it will be too late." The man paused, forcing the gloomy words past his lips. "And Sora will be helpless, because there's no way you can fix his memory without enough power from Sora himself to support the stress you're putting on his mind when you're fixing his memory."_

"_And I said I'd help Sora." Namine concluded, shoulders slumping. The man nodded silently._

"_Look," He said as he approached, climbing easily onto the edge beside Namine, "at least this way, someone will remember him." He took out two photographs from the folds of his trench coat; two sets of four, and hehad the same, soft, rare smile—the smile that only came to him when something uniquely **happy** wormed its way through him and he couldn't stop it._

"_DiZ will remember. I will remember." Namine said, only a drop of indignation in her voice._

"_DiZ won't **care**. And your memories won't matter in the end."_

_Namine's eyelids fell slightly, crushing something more fragile than a snowflake within her._

"_You'll remember, right?" She asked hopefully._

"_Only as—another step, I suppose, that I need to take," He stared at the two pictures. "This Roxas is—a stranger to me. I won't remember, can't remember."_

"_Oh."_

_Deeming the conversation over, the man slid off the ledge, and turned to offer Namine help._

"_It's okay. I'll stay up here for a while." Namine declined._

_The man looked at her for a moment, before smiling lightly. The expression reached his eyes, and they flashed aquamarine._

"_Suit yourself." He replied. Walking smoothly to the small table nearby, he grabbed the sketchbook and a thin box of crayons. "Here," He held them out to Namine when he came back._

"_Thank you." Namine replied, and the man nodded curtly._

"_Riku?" Namine called as the man prepared to make his exit, approaching the door; he stopped and looked over his shoulder._

"_Will you—" Namine bit her lower lip before continuing, "Will you let Roxas have the pictures back? In the end?" She paused again, "No one will remember, but if you give it back to him, at least he can remember himself."_

_The man stared at her, then shook his head, "One, I'll give to him at the end. The other, I'm giving to Sora."_

"_Why?" Namine asked, head tipped slightly to one side._

"_Because then they'll both remember, and Sora will **care**."_

---

Roxas had that picture somewhere, he knew it with a surety that scared him, tried to find it with hands so desperate they confused him, because _I **know **him, I've seen those grass-green eyes, asked him about those tattoos under his eyes before, seen him murder and manipulate and smirk through it all, without batting an eye in surprise or disapproval or injustice or even fear because I thought I couldn't._

"Hey, Roxas! Get down here! Victory party at the clock tower!"

"Sorry." Roxas said as he appeared at the door.

"What were you doing up there?" Hayner asked curiously, one eyebrow tugging one side of his head upwards, face tipped to one side.

_Looking for—?_ "Nothing," Roxas shook his head. "Just—just trying to find that photo of us. Yeah."

"Don't you have it?" Olette asked. "We found it again, remember?"

"It's gone again," Roxas replied, scratching the back of his head. "Don't know where it went."

"Maybe that same person came and stole it again." Pence's eyes were starting toround outagain.

"Maybe." Roxas shrugged, pushing the problem to the back of his mind. "Don't worry about it; it's probably somewhere in there, I just can't remember for now where. What were you saying about a victory party?"

---

The first thing he did when he woke up was to grasp with his mind, as hard as he could, the vestiges of the dreams that the twilight scenery outside his window tried to pry from him. For several moments, reality seemed to fade in and out of existence as he stared hard at nothing in particular, trying to go over everything Namine—_there you are, but where are the others, Namine?—_told him, to hold in every picture he saw in that deathly white room. Tried to remember Namine's eyes, sad and resigned but trying so hard to _tell me the truth of everything; _tried to remember that _he_ used to look like that too.

He searched his drawers, under his bed and closet, _behind_ the bed and closet, took apart his bed, haphazardly shook every book open, swept everything from his desk onto the floor, _where is that photograph—_

_He was in the front, standing stiffly, the only indication of his enjoyment being a soft smile on his face—his first, Axel declared, since he came to the Organization. The man stood grinning behind Roxas,one gangly armhanging loosely around his slightly scrawny shoulders. Namine sat on a simple, white chair, her sketchbook and crayon clutched in her lap. Her smile was timid, and her shoulders, usually slightly slumped in a hidden, passive fear, were pulled back gently by Demyx, who in the picture still had both hands on her shoulders, pitch black glove contrasting with pale skin. Above Namine's face, Demyx smiled, lopsided and bright and lively._

Roxas sat back on his bed, the hand with his picture falling into his lap. The setting sunlight fell on the colours, and suddenly the names burning in his mind were gone. Letting the picture drift to the floor, he rubbed his temples, hard, pounded them lightly several times, his eyes squeezed shut against the increasingly unstable reality.

Something compelling forced his eyes open, and he glanced at the clock. Standing up, he grabbed a bottle of spare potion from his desk.

He stopped when his hand was on the doorknob, and turned to look at the picture on the ground. In the shadows, it seemed more familiar, and he went to pick it up again. After a last, futile attempt to remember the names, he decided to ask Namine if he ever met her today.

---

Roxas stared bitterly at the photograph in his hand, at picture-Roxas, who smiled as much as he could mean to smile, like Axel and Demyx and Namine were trying. The Keyblade hung limply in the other, just below a mangled computer monitor.

He remembered that other photograph—the one he and Hayner and Olette and Pence took—_or didn't, I guess, since it was all in the damn computer_.

He didn't smile like that, no matter how good DiZ tried to cover it up with the mouth gently curving the same way. He didn't smile like he didn't have a care in the world, nor did he smile like he _meant_ it. He didn't smile like _Sora_, _and I'll **never** smile like Sora, don't **want** to smile like Sora, because **that's not me.**_

Roxas sighed resignedly, folded the picture and tucked it safely in the pocket of his pants. As he neared the open door, he thought he heard fire crackling—maybe one of the electrical wires was on fire, was going to melt and explode every byte of the simulation into dreaded non-existence.

With heavy steps and a backward glance, he passed the doorway, and it slid shut with mechanical finality.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Any comments, criticisms, and questions are welcome. 


End file.
